


Break a Leg

by sa_mu_uu



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Awkward Flirting, Co-workers, M/M, Old Feelings, was originally going to be a series of oneshots, will be a short fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:37:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sa_mu_uu/pseuds/sa_mu_uu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, romance between co-stars requires handling two sets of feelings. ZoSan actors AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a lot of pain meds after oral surgery. Sorry. o_o

“What the hell's with all this blood...?”

Sanji staggers forward, stumbling over his own mangled feet as he steps down the pile of cracked boulders. Liquid gore paints the landscape under his feet; some dried and sticky, and some splashing up onto his shoes with each step he takes. Behind him, the hollow sound of crumbling rock echoes with an audible clatter. His heartbeat drums in time with his paces, speeding up as he approaches his companion’s side.

“Hey, are—” Sanji swallows down the knot in his throat. “—Are you still alive...?”

Zoro stands firmly in place with his arms crossed over his chest, masking the slight tremors that threatened to break his composure. He lets out a short, shaky breath through his nose, but cuts it off with a quiet strain. He’s standing so perfectly still that could easily pass for a marble statue, were it not for the beads of blood and sweat dripping down his face. Sanji is used to seeing him covered in filth, but never like this. The sight of it is enough to make his stomach wrench.

“Answer me! What the hell _happened_ here?!” he yells, his voice cracking as his hand latches onto the other man’s tattered shoulder. Zoro doesn’t budge an inch under the added weight; his gaze is locked on something invisible in the distance.

“...Nothing happened.”

Sanji’s pulse throbs in his ears, filling the deafening silence that follows. There’s nothing he can say to such a simple response; any words fall dead on his lips. He can only stare at his companion, silently fighting back the desire to kick the man into the ground. Or hug him senseless. Maybe both.

After a long, stiff pause, a muffled crackle over the loudspeakers pulls a heavy sigh from everyone in the room. _“Alright, perfect, that's exactly what we were looking for. That’s our take. Initial read-through for the next scene begins at 8:00A.M tomorrow, so don't be late.”_

The hand gripping Zoro’s shoulder slides away as Sanji’s arms fall limp at his sides. “Holy shit!” He laughs over the sudden uproar of chatter and mechanical beeping that erupts around them. "That was so intense! I thought the director was going to piss himself, did you see the look on his face?”

Zoro scoffs, wiping the syrupy red mess off of his cheek with the back of his hand. “No, actually, I didn’t. It was pretty much impossible to focus on anything with you screaming in my ear like that.”

“Sorry, I guess I got caught up in the moment a little.” Wincing a bit at the soreness in his arms, Sanji runs his fingers through his hair, cringing as they catch on knotted tangles halfway through. Every inch of him is filthy; and while it isn’t the first time he’s dealt with it, it’s really starting to get on his nerves. Examining his hands with a scowl, he tries to wipe the dirt makeup and stage blood onto his pants to no avail; too bad for him, it's already long since dried. “But it hard to not get into it, this time… You really look like hell. How many bottles of blood did they use on you? A dozen?”

“At _least_ a dozen,” Zoro replies, pulling the red-soaked shirt away from his skin with a grimace. It separates from his skin like he’s peeling off a sticker, but then promptly snaps back into place with a wet slap the moment he lets go. “...Man, it’s gonna take weeks to wash this all off.”

“Yeah, no shit. You know, you might as well just throw those clothes away... They’re completely trashed,” Sanji says, assessing the damage with a poorly hidden grin. He’s a little biased, though—as he’s said plenty of times in the past, he’s tired of seeing those clothes.  Maybe if they’re lucky, the studio will answer his prayers and finally get around to replacing the outfit with something new.

“Hell no, I’ve been wearing these for years! They’ve been through worse.” Zoro clutches the bottom of his shirt possessively in a tight fist, accidentally squeezing some of the blood out onto the ground. Fortunately, the set below them is utterly covered in the stuff already, so it doesn't make much of a difference.

Sanji has all sorts of objections to that. Those clothes absolutely _have not_ been through worse than this before, for starters—and repairing them at this point would take the costuming team at least a few hours of pointless work—but he's cut off before a word of it can get out.

“Hey, you two,” a distant voice calls from the edge of the set, barely intelligible over the shuffling and metallic clatter all around them. “We have to clean up! You’re in the way, so hurry up and clear out!”

Right, they’re still in the middle of the stage—and surrounded by of dozens of people who would sooner knock them out of the way with heavy machinery than have their work put on hold, no less. Sanji sighs under his breath and turns to the source of the voice with an over-the-top workplace smile. “Sorry, sorry! We’ll move," he calls cheerfully, grabbing Zoro by the wrist before promptly dropping back to into a monotonous tone. "Come on, moron, let's get out of here."

Zoro nods, yawning as he allows Sanji to drag him across the massive, bloody field of prop rocks and grass. "Your voice sounds like shit," he says, looking Sanji over with a tired frown as they walk. “How many cigarettes did you go through today?"

Sanji pauses moment to mull the question over. He'd lost track a few hours in, but he’s sure it was a bit higher than usual. "I dunno. A few dozen at least?" he replies, hopping up over a boulder and off of the edge of the set with a slight spring in his step. He peers back over his shoulder just in time to see Zoro shoot him a look of horror. Clearly the man hadn’t been keeping count. “Well, that’s just what happens when you mess up a scene a hundred fucking times, y’know? It’s your fault I sound like this.”

Zoro is quiet for a moment, pressing his lips in a hard line. "...I still can’t believe you won't switch to fake ones,” he starts again. “You're going to die of lung cancer before this show is even over—you know that, right?"

Well, that’s probably true, if the incessant burning in the shallow reaches of his chest are any indication. But still, letting the moss head know he’s right isn't fun. "I'm gonna die of _old age_ before this show is over. And I told you a million times, fake cigarettes aren’t even close to the same. I can't get into it unless it feels real, y'know?"

Slowing to a stop, Zoro tugs his wrist out of Sanji's grasp and pulls his shirt off over his head in one fluid motion, apparently having grown tired of walking around with slimy clothes clinging like plastic wrap to his body. Not that Sanji could blame the guy; that blood can be itchy as hell sometimes. But even so, can't he wait just five goddamn minutes to get to the dressing room before stripping? Unless, of course, his goal is to get most of the crew on the clock to swoon over his abs instead of doing their jobs properly, in which case he’s doing great. Sanji reflexively chews on the inside of his cheek, studying the man out of the corner of his eye as stealthily as he can manage with his shitty, blood-matted hair in the way.

"You’re so hung up over realism that you’d die for it?” Zoro says, wringing his tattered mop of a shirt out over a trash can before slinging its carcass over his bare shoulder. “Good thing you didn't go into porn acting, then, huh?"

"Oh, shut up. At least I have the looks for it," Sanji grumbles, narrowly avoiding accidental eye contact as he turns to examine himself in one of the mirrors of the makeup station set up just off-set. But the sight he’s met with is almost bad enough to have him averting his eyes right back; he looks like even more of a wreck than he had when they started, with hours of real fatigue built up underneath the expertly crafted facade of battle-worn exhaustion. Fake cuts and bruises blanket his face and bare neck, and if it weren't for the layers of foundation making him look flawlessly smooth underneath it all, he’s sure he would be able to pass as a corpse; a sexy corpse, but still very dead nonetheless. "Well, I mean, I look like trash right now, but... you know. Usually."

Zoro looks him over with a sly smile, raising an eyebrow before turning to the water cooler aside the table for a drink. "Yeah. Sure you do."

And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?

Before Sanji has the chance to object, he’s cut off by the sound of a metal door slamming open against the concrete wall behind them, and an equally earth-rending voice shouting out, "Yo, Sanji! Zoro! Great job out there!”

"Oh, Luffy,” Zoro perks up a little, some of his exhaustion disappearing in favor of a bright grin. “What’s up? I thought you went home already."

"Nope! I was watching from the sound room,” he says, pointing up at the window on the second floor of the studio. Behind it, Sanji can barely make out the familiar faces of technicians and actors alike chatting excitedly amongst themselves. They seem pleased, from what he can tell, but it’s impossible to hear anything they’re saying through the soundproofing. "I couldn't miss out on watching you guys run that scene; people are gonna totally flip when it airs! That was freakin’ awesome!"

“Aw, thanks. And to think it only took us sixteen tries…” Sanji says under his breath, casting a side-eye in his partner’s direction.

“Hey, I wasn’t the one that kept falling down on the rocks like an idiot!” Zoro snaps back, bristling at the not-so-subtle accusation.   

“Oh yeah?” Sanji folds his arms over his chest, sneering as they turn toward each other with looming tension that seems to blossom out of nowhere. “Almost every retake we had to do was because you delivered your line too early, bastard!"

Luffy looks between them, sporting his trademark grin as he plays around with the string holding his hat around his neck. "...Man, you two really do keep in character, huh? It's really funny."

"We do not!" they yell at him in unison, before their gazes snap back together and they stare at each other like they’re both standing around in their underwear or something. Sanji can feel the unfettered embarrassment radiating off of Zoro in waves next to him, but he’s feeling it just as much. Nothing else gets under his skin quite like being lumped in with that dickbag as if they’re actually an item. It gives him too much hope, damn it.

Luffy, however, seems to be entirely oblivious to this as always, striding into their personal space to fling an arm over either man's shoulder without skipping a beat. "Yeah right, whatever you say," he laughs, grinning like a mischievous kid as he rubs some of the dirt around on Sanji's face in a poor attempt to clean it off. "So, anyway, some of the guys were going out for drinks in a bit! Do you two wanna come?"

A drink sounds like exactly what he needs, but the conflicted look he catches on Zoro’s face as he steals a glance at the other man gives him pause; no, that prospect is out of the question. He has prior engagements, after all. "I wish I could,” he starts, subtly trying to peel the smaller man’s hand from his shoulder. “But maybe next time. I already promised the marimo I'd cook him dinner if he somehow managed to not break character for the whole filming. Didn't think he could do it, but he did."

On the opposite end of Luffy's half-hug, Zoro straightens up a bit, and an oddly strained, nonchalant expression overtakes his face. In his own weird way, he seems pleased.

To be honest, Sanji hadn't really been expecting his bribe to work nearly as well as it did. Out of everyone, except maybe the "future pirate king" and star of the show himself, Zoro is one of the people most prone to laughing fits or fucking up lines in the middle of recording. And more often than not, the two of them would have to stay late to make up for his inability to keep his shit together. But he'd really pulled through that day, playing the “stoic sentinel” part almost freakishly well. Perhaps Sanji is on to something by bribing the man by his tastebuds.

"Sanji's real food, huh...? Sounds suuuuper nice," Luffy sighs, his envy clear as day as he gives a pointed look down to his stomach; that expression of longing is one Sanji has seen dozens of times on the man's face. Ever since he'd invited the crew over for dinner at his place a few years back, they all looked at the food props catered to the set with the same wistful expression. Perhaps they'd get lucky and end up with another scene in which he has to perform food prep on camera again soon. Lunch breaks in the studio are always so lively on days like that. "Well, alrighty then. Next time for sure!”

“You got it, captain.” Sanji reflects back Luffy’s grin, and the man slides out from between him and Zoro with the dexterity of a small cat.

“Cool!” he says, and Sanji can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes as his mind undoubtedly runs a mile a minute planning their next group outing. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow! Have a nice dinner, guys!" He gives them a wave, spinning on his heels to make a mad dash for the studio exit.

"I'll bring you some leftovers if I have any!" Sanji calls after him, barely able to get the words out while Luffy is still in the room.

"You're the best, Sanji!" Luffy yells enthusiastically over his shoulder, before the door slams shut behind him again with a force that rivals his boisterous entrance.

"Your lack of faith in me is annoying," Zoro sneers, but his sour expression quickly melts into a mellowed smile. "...But good for my stomach, at least. What's for dinner?"

"We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it," Sanji says, and resumes his trek toward the dressing rooms. “Before that, I think a change of clothes is in order, don’t you?”

Zoro nods quickly, likely all too eager to get into something more comfortable. “Yeah. Let’s make it quick, though. I’m hungry.”

Admittedly, Zoro’s not the only one itching for a good meal. The thought of something warm in his stomach is more than a little tempting. So he makes his way across the studio and down the main hallway with the marimo trailing close behind, his hands idly messing with some of the half-burnt cigarettes in his pocket. Seafood. He’s planning a seafood dish. Is that too predictable, too ironic? He lets out a quiet sigh, inwardly kicking himself. No, he can cook whatever the hell he wants. And if Zoro has a problem with that, he can just go home and feed himself. It isn't Sanji's job to cater to him exclusively, after all. It's not like they’re like _that_ , for fuck’s sake. Cooking for him outside of work is already beyond what Sanji was required to do in the first place, as far as their friendship was concerned. He’s already being more than charitable enough.

It doesn’t occur to him until the moment he stands with his hand on the doorknob, however, that nobody else is going to be inside the dressing room anymore. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he and Zoro are going to be alone.

_Shit._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This… came a lot quicker than I expected lol. But, hey, what's wrong with that? 8D

Right. They're going to be alone.

But that should have occurred to him earlier, right? They're the only people left that are still in costume for the day, after all; nobody else has any business being in that dressing room. And what's more, after this brief stop, they'll be leaving to go to Sanji's apartment, which is just as devoid of life—unless you count his houseplant, lovingly named Francis. But ficus trees aren't exactly the best wingmen, as it turns out.

His hands ball up in tight fists, leaving behind harsh lines in his blood-covered palms. Usually, he'd be able to ignore that first little issue and keep to himself. But they're going home together tonight, so ignoring the man while they strip down and change clothes would be a pointless effort anyway. He really hadn't thought this through, had he?—Not there's any backing out now.

The thought makes Sanji accidentally shove the door open with a lot more force than necessary, and it slams against the wall on the inside with a heavy thud. The rhythmic hammering in his chest shoots up to his ears, and the realization strikes him that his internal freaking out is becoming a bit less subtle than he'd like.

"Shit, my bad," he says with a wince, mentally kicking himself. He really needs to calm down, or tonight's going to be way more difficult than he'd imagined.

"Wow. Way to show that door who's boss," Zoro says, and he passes by to enter the room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets to make his already-casual-saunter look about a hundred thousand times more laid-back than Sanji feels. He tosses his shirt onto the black loveseat couch by the door, as if that's even close to where it belongs, and walks over to his corner without missing a beat. Sanji turns his gaze away just in time to hear rather than see the rest of his co-star's dirtied clothes drop to the floor. Shameless as always. "You put another dent in the wall. Pretty sure that's three this month."

"Oh, shut up," Sanji grumbles, stepping in and making his way over to his section of the room a bit more hurriedly than usual. On his way, he takes a stealthy glance over his shoulder. As expected, there's a fresh crater in the already-heavily dented wall behind the door. At least nobody can prove it wasn't there before. "Don't keep track of pointless shit like that."

Zoro shrugs audibly from his side of the room; there's a clanging of metal hangers against one another, but he doesn't make another sound. Apparently he's more interested in getting dressed than getting in a fight. Sanji can appreciate that.

His own street attire, which he'd wore into work that day, sits neatly folded on top of his rack beyond a cluster of makeup tables, against the wall opposite the marimo's. Checking the full-length mirror in front of him to make sure he isn't being watched, he makes short work of his tattered suit, placing it on a hanger away from the rest of the garments that are still clean. He puts on his normal clothes quickly; fitted black pants, a leather belt, and white v-neck underneath a slim-fit blazer (with the sleeves rolled up his forearms a bit, just the way he likes it.) He sticks with the same shoes—they belong to him rather than the studio—but he makes a note to clean them off before going anywhere that might frown upon the blood flaking off of the soles.

He'll admit, some of his character's sharp dressing habits have definitely made their way into his own wardrobe. So what? The costume department knows damn well how to dress his build; and after years of showcasing their hard work day in and day out, it's been difficult not to gravitate toward a similar style on his own time. It's something comfortable—something he's grown into.

Readjusting his blazer to sit flatter on his chest, he steals a glance over his shoulder. Zoro is still in the midst of putting on a fresh pair of jeans, just as topless and covered in red as before. Sanji lets himself stare for a moment, watching closely as Zoro takes a slow, steady breath. Rather than focusing on anything productive, the man's eyes are glued to something on the ground near his feet, his hands hovering still over unbuttoned pants that threaten to slip from his hips.

Sanji frowns. That's strange; he's usually done and out the door before Sanji can even blink. But the silence that he usually welcomes with open arms after a long day at work feels heavy on his shoulders, for some reason. Is something… wrong?

Oh, no, there's no way in hell he's going to play therapist for his fictional-but-almost-genuine-rival. That's Luffy and Usopp's job. Those two are great at being good friends. Shit, even Ace would be a better option than him if the guy were ever actually around. Sure, he and Zoro are supposed to play nakama who are always able to help each other and all that idealistic stuff—and he'll even admit that sometimes, under the influence of the excitement around them, he lets that level of relationship bleed into their interactions after wrapping up for the day.

But in that room, away from everyone else, they're just two men. Instead of crewmates bound by fate, they're completely separate people—just a college-dropout-turned-supermodel from Sapporo, and a fine arts honor student from Seattle. There are no swords, no seas, and no scripts to read from. There's nobody telling them how to act with each other, how close to stand, or how long to look at each other before scowling away. It's different. Difficult. And he's voluntarily offered himself up for a whole evening of this; damn it, what the hell had he been thinking?

Practically chewing a hole into the inside of his lip, Sanji turns back to his side of the room and idly thumbs through his wardrobe. For whatever reason, be it a habit or something else, it feels wrong to be the first one ready. So he takes his time admiring the fabric tucked away toward the back, if only to feign some semblance of being busy.

His old costumes are really beautiful, though, and it only takes a moment for him to get absorbed in them. Every individual hanger holds a different story, and he can recall every moment he's spent in each one. The blue pinstripe button-up that he'd been stuck in for years, that heavy leather coat from the Drum Island saga, and even his old desert attire hang there in case they're ever needed again.

"…Hey, I remember this," he grins, holding the third hanger up to himself in front of the mirror. "Alabasta. That was the first time I actually got to call you 'marimo' on camera."

Glancing up at his own reflection, he only admires himself and the outfit for a moment before he catches sight of Zoro staring at him in the mirror's surface, his mouth half-open and eyes narrowed. Zoro doesn't respond, anchored in place as he grips a fresh shirt that's pulled halfway over his chest. His gaze slides down Sanji's back before shifting up to his face again, and Sanji can almost swear he sees the knot in the man's throat as he closes his mouth and swallows. Sanji pries his eye away from the mirror to turn and face him reluctantly, something twisting strangely in his chest as Zoro's eyes lock on his without the aid of a mirror, and he finally lets his shirt fall into place.

When had Zoro managed to wipe the dirt off his face? He looks pristine already, like he hadn't just been standing under hot lights and watchful eyes for hours and hours covered in grime and sweat. He looks flawless, but that's nothing new, so it isn't hard to ignore that in favor of the very rare expression of frustration on the man's face instead. "…The hell is that look for?" Sanji finally asks, the accidental shift in his voice making the question sound a lot less aloof than he'd intended.

Shifting his gaze to the side, Zoro scratches the back of his head. "…Do you still remember that night?"

The words come out so easily that it takes Sanji a moment to register them. He's unsure what exactly he's supposed to be remembering until Zoro offers a slight nod toward the outfit in Sanji's hand.

_Ah, that._ Sanji takes another look back at the desert garb, holding it away from himself to examine it from top to bottom. He bites his lip on the spot that's starting to become sore from abuse, thinking back to the location shooting they'd done for Alabasta in those clothes. He remembers the scalding hot sun that hung overhead throughout their endlessly long workdays, and the tan he'd gotten for the first time in his life afterward. He remembers the celebration they'd had after the final day of shooting, and how he and Zoro had stumbled a bit too far from where the party's lamplight reached, accidentally letting their hands roam a bit too much in the darkness. His mind could never possibly erase the memory of that stifling humidity, and the feeling of Zoro's hot breath on his neck as he grabbed for fistfulls of the man's shirt, with no goal other than to satiate the uncontrollable pounding in his chest.

To insinuate that he could forget something like that is laughable.

"I don't know. Maybe," he lies under his breath, scowling at the fabric in his hands. It isn't hard to imagine where Zoro is going with his questioning. But Sanji has long since dedicated himself to the facade of not giving a shit that they've wordlessly agreed to uphold over the years, and he isn't appreciative of the reminder that he had almost fucked that up before.

He isn't a fool; he knows that wrecking a halfway tolerable relationship with someone you're contractually stuck with for years down the road is a terrible life choice. So he refuses to say a word about his feelings, about that almost-fling, or about anything even remotely related. And it isn't like it's even usually all that hard for his heart to keep a respectable distance. People aren't entirely wrong to assume that their hostility lives on behind the cameras. The mere fact that he and the marimo are professional equals—despite the fact that the latter had none of the formal training that Sanji had slaved over for half a decade in college—makes his blood boil nigh constantly. He definitely wants to knock the man down a few pegs sometimes, that's for damn sure.

"What the hell is 'maybe' supposed to mean?"

Hooking the clothes hanger back on the rack, Sanji lets out a quiet sigh and grabs his cell phone and keys from the top shelf. What does it mean? It means he knows he should say no, but he can't—that he knows he wants to say yes, but can't do that either. "It means I'd rather leave than talk right now," he mutters under his breath. "Quit stalling and grab your stuff already."

Instead of doing as he's told, Zoro stands with his arms crossed over his chest. "No."

"' _No_ '?" Sanji parrots back with a hint of disbelief, looking up from his lock screen to stare a Zoro. "Why the fuck—? Just a few minutes ago, you said we should make this quick!"

Zoro rolls his eyes and lets his arms fall, meandering over from his side of the room to Sanji's. "Yeah, and now I'm trying to figure something out, so hold your damn horses."

"Figure out fucking what, exactly?" Sanji frowns, rocking back on his heels as Zoro approaches him to keep a comfortable distance. His fingers graze the wardrobe behind him, tipping him off that he's run out of space to back up, and he grinds his teeth restlessly. "…Seems kind of unlike you to actually be present in your own head for once."

And this would be the part where they'd start fighting, and either he or Zoro—or both of them—would find themselves face-first on the floor of one of these wardrobes.

But, for once, Zoro doesn't argue back. "Run the 377 scene with me again," he says, as if it were the most typical request in the universe. "The one with both you and Kuma, from the top."

Sanji only lets his jaw drop halfway before he catches himself and snaps it shut; he hadn't seen that coming at all. What the hell is he getting at? Zoro never asks to practice with him, especially material that's already been recorded and done. And it's not like it was a particularly difficult scene in the first place; all he had to do was yell some stuff, and get hit in the stomach half to death. They'd gotten it right nearly on the second try. Not to mention, that scene is practically a monologue exclusively for Sanji himself. As far as he can figure, Zoro would gain nothing useful from going through it again. But there's a familiar, provoking spark in the other man's eyes—one that Sanji has been literally trained to be unable to ignore—so he steels himself and takes in a deep breath.

"Alright, fine," he says after a moment. "If that's what you want, then whatever. But just one time, got it? Don't fuck it up, because I won't start over." Really, he just doesn't know if he has it in him to keep this up much longer. Especially not if Zoro keeps looking at him like that.

"Yeah, I got it. I'll read your cue," he says, taking a few steps toward the back corner of the room. They don't have as much room to work with as they did on the set, but they still need to start far apart in order to make the stage directions work. "Whenever you're ready."

While part of his head is telling him he'll never be ready at this rate, Sanji is a goddamn professional, and he's had more than enough practice ignoring the feeling in order to perform. Pushing away any nagging questions he has about Zoro's eerie behavior, he wanders back over to the doorway and shakes the tension out of his nerves. Lighting up one of his cigarettes with a deft hand, he leans back against the door, sliding back into a state of fake exhaustion. If he's going to do this, he's going to make it the best damn three minutes of acting Zoro has ever witnessed. He breathes in, letting the smoke fill his chest, before speaking in the most drained voice he can muster. "Read me in, marimo."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …In which Zoro apparently has poor eyesight, and Sanji has been way too well-trained by the studio to kick stuff reflexively. (Sorry this took so long, Stardew Valley ate my life ._.)

The atmosphere in the room changes in an instant. They’re not standing on the remnants of Thriller Bark Mansion, but Sanji is _there_ , ankle-deep in the rubble and dust clouds with the massive, cracked mast casting a shadow over the dressing room floor.

Some sort of switch flips behind Zoro’s eyes, and his gaze breaks away from Sanji’s to lock onto an invisible opponent up in the ceiling in front of him. As always, he’s ready at the drop of a hat. He recites Sanji’s cue with the same grave tone that he’s used a hundred times before, as if it’s as second nature as breathing. “Luffy will be the one who becomes the pirate king.”

“Hold on a second, you bastard!” Sanji doesn’t think before the words come out; his reflexes take over, and he takes a firm step forward. It vibrates the wooden planks underneath them, echoing loud enough to be picked up by the microphones—were there actually any around. He’s tired all of a sudden, so tired, which makes his performance all the more believable as his feet drag him toward Zoro with a slight limp and a stagger. “What’ll happen if you die?!” he snarls, a real scowl pulling at the corners of his mouth. ”What happened to your ambition, stupid?”

It feels strange, going over lines that he'd already resigned from his memory as being old, useless information—like he's pulling it up from a fresh grave. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something buried in this passage that they need to settle; at the very least, that would explain Zoro's behavior. And if that's what it takes to get them back to normal, he’s willing to look deeper into the feeling.

Zoro watches him approach with a dark expression, gritting his teeth. “Why, you…” he grunts back, but his tone is more torn up than it is threatening. His hand shifts toward his vacant hip, over the empty space where the hilt of Sandai Kitetsu would normally sit. Did he actually think the swords were there for a moment, or is he just showing off his acting skills? Well, two can play at that game.

“Hey, big guy!” Sanji says, spinning on his heels to the invisible opponent up in the ceiling that Zoro had been eyeing before. He throws his arms out in a wild gesture, shielding Zoro from the momentous threat that isn’t there. His legs nearly buckle under the stress of the sudden movement, although the action is mostly for show. There’s a squeak of rubber soles against the floor behind him as Zoro jerks forward in surprise, likely thinking that Sanji was actually going to collapse, and he smirks to himself. “...Instead of taking that moss-headed swordsman’s life—”

To his shock, Sanji is cut off by the sound of snickering behind him. It's muffled, and Zoro is trying at least a little bit to hide it, but Sanji would know that noise anywhere. What the hell happened to their agreement? No laughing for a whole day, and he’d make the man dinner; that was the plan. And he’d been doing so well until now, too.

“I thought we had a deal, idiot.”

“That only counted during recording, right?” Zoro says, still trying to pull himself together. “Keep going.”

Sanji snorts under his breath, giving his tense shoulders a quick roll. Fine. He’s nothing if not gracious, even with idiots. After a moment to clear his mind, he settles back into his stance. Where had he been before being so rudely interrupted? Right, the part where he offers himself up to be slaughtered. Lovely. “...Instead of taking that moss-headed swordsman’s life, take mine!”

“Wha-” Zoro tries to interrupt him, as the script says he should, but Sanji raises his voice to speak over him in perfect rhythm.

“The Marines still don’t think much of me now. But, before long, I’ll be the most dangerous member of this crew.” Straightening his back—and making it look as physically taxing to do so as he can—he stands tall, bringing one of his outstretched arms back to point a thumb at his chest indignantly. ”I’m Blackleg Sanji!”

In the silent moments that follow, the desire to glance back at Zoro is overwhelming, but Sanji holds his ground, maintaining his stance. After a long, heavy silence, he takes a step forward and sticks his hands into his pockets. “...Now, kill me! Don’t take his life, take mine. I’ve always been prepared to sacrifice myself for the others. This is where I die an honorable death!”

The bulk of his monologue is over, but it’s still not time for Zoro to cut him off. He’s doing an awfully good job keeping silent; for a moment, nothing but the whirring of the air conditioner fills the room. Sanji would give anything to see what sort of face he’s making right now. Since nobody else is watching, in theory, Zoro could easily be flipping him off right now and he would never know. The thought, for whatever ridiculous reason, brings a smile to his face.

Shit, he really enjoys this, doesn't he?

“Hey,” Sanji starts again, in a lighter voice than he’d usually use for this part—and, to his surprise, he can feel the telltale signs of tears welling behind his eyes ever so slightly. He misses the beat to come in for his next line, and lets out a quiet sigh to buy himself more time. This part always gives him some trouble, but running it in the privacy of the dressing room is affecting him more than he’d thought it would. “Please... give everyone my regards. Sorry, but you’ll have to search for another cook.” God, he hates that line. The very concept of his brings a bad taste to his mouth.

As soon as he falls silent, he tenses by reflex. Zoro’s swords are stashed away on the other side of the room, so logically, there’s nothing for him to be shoved in the stomach with. But he knows Zoro—the man is extremely good at improvising. It’s better to be safe than sorry. So he waits, and waits some more, for the pain of being struck to come. But when he feels the gentle hand taking his, he nearly jumps out of his skin. He spins around and finds Zoro standing far closer than he’s used to—close enough that he almost attacks him out of sheer habit.

“Wh—...y-you bastard,” Sanji starts in a less than perfect attempt to continue the scene to his last actual line, unsure whether Zoro is interrupting him or improvising. “What the hell do you think you’re doing...? I’m trying to make a dramatic sacrifice here.”

“That’s a load of bullshit and you know it,” Zoro says with a frown, lifting Sanji’s chin with his free hand to solidify eye contact.

Well, that did nothing to fix his confusion. “Bullshit? What is?” Sanji asks, heat rushing to his cheeks and ears as his heart nearly bursts out of his ribcage. His mind is running a mile a minute; but the only thought he can piece together is that, if Zoro were to do this during the real filming, the director might actually have an aneurysm right on the set. Is this still part of the scene? He can't for the life of him pinpoint which Zoro is doing this to him. But making a fool of himself by taking it the wrong way is the last thing he wants to do, so he clears his throat and continues responding as vaguely as he can. “Everything I’ve said is fucking true.”

“No, it isn’t,” Zoro insists frustratedly, tightening the grip on Sanji’s hand. “That garbage about finding another cook—never say that again, alright?”

A jolt courses through Sanji’s chest and settles heavily in his gut at that. Slowly, he reaches behind himself with his unbound hand to stub out his spent cigarette in the tray atop his wardrobe. “...What kind of stupid shit are you on about now?” he says as calmly as he can. “Come on, you guys can find someone else if you need to.” That’s the idea behind the line he’d had to say, anyway. But the concept of being replaced is something that he doesn't want to spend much time mulling over. Besides, he has a contract, doesn’t he? So the likelihood of that happening is negligible at best, anyway.

“That's not the point!”

“Then what is?!” Part of him was still doubtful that there was ever an actual point to this exercise. What about this is so important to Zoro that he’d actually feel the need to go this far?

“ _ You _ are!”

“For fuck's sake, marimo, you're not making any sense!”

Zoro grabs both of his shoulders in a vice grip, and for a second Sanji thinks the man is going to shove him back. But his fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket instead, pulling him in close enough for their foreheads to press together—another familiar motion that tugs at Sanji’s overdeveloped instincts to attack him. But he doesn’t, staring back with wide eyes instead. “Listen, curly-brows, I don’t give a damn if we could find someone else or not. It can't be anyone else. It has to be you—there’s nobody else that gets under my skin like you do, or pulls off fight scenes as well as you do, or smiles the same, perfect way you do all damn day! Nobody in the world is more suited for this than you. You think you’re expendable?! No replacement could hold a fucking candle to you!”

Had... had he heard that right? Zoro said “fight  _ scene _ ”, didn’t he? That must mean that he’s speaking from the heart to him right now. Sanji swallows thickly, one of his hands subconsciously drifting up his side to thumb at the bottom of the man’s shirt. Just how much had this been eating at them? Probably since the first time they read through the scene themselves, but he hadn’t noticed until now. But Zoro had told him exactly what he had needed to hear, even though he hadn’t even known he needed to hear it. And if the warmth knotting Sanji’s stomach is anything to go by, he did a good job doing so.

“That's… a lot of compliments to process, marimo,” he says slowly, idly rubbing the thin fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the freshly laundered scent of Zoro’s clean clothes and the faint smell of his hair gel blend very well together.

“Yeah, well, I've got all night.” Zoro doesn’t move, his stare demanding eye contact. It leaves no accommodation for Sanji to look away, but he can’t even bring himself to try, too caught up in studying the thin lines of the man’s contact lenses around his strikingly brown irises. How long has he been wearing those for? In all the years they’ve worked together, Sanji has never seen him with glasses—he didn’t even know he needed them—but he finds himself extremely interested in the idea. “Take all the time you want.”

The heat returns to his cheeks, and he’s sure Zoro can feel it radiating off of him. Suddenly, the man’s hands feel a lot heavier on his shoulders. “It’s not a matter of time, idiot. I just… don’t know what to say to something like that.”

They're used to sharing their feelings at close quarters like this—often practically eyeball-to-eyeball and much louder, however—but Sanji finds it harder to breathe than usual this time. The atmosphere is different, _ very _ different, and he’s hesitant to admit the reason why. He’s been down this path before, and he’s told himself not to do it again, damn it.

After a moment, Zoro speaks again. “I need to know,” he says, his frown visible in his eyes as he speaks. “Are you planning on leaving?”

The question makes Sanji’s breath catch in his throat, and he leans back a fraction of an inch out of reflex. It’s hardly enough to change their distance, but he can feel the warmth from Zoro’s skin start to vanish. “Leaving? What?”

Is that what he had been getting all worked up about? The idea is ridiculous at first, but Sanji gets it; it makes sense that he would worry about it, considering that they had come about as close to that as they possibly could have, as far as their production’s story is concerned. In fact, the same thought had occurred to him a few times too. But, like he’d said before, he’ll probably die before his job in this place is done—and he means that. “...No, never. ” He couldn’t. Not with Zoro there; not when they have so much left to do.

Zoro takes another half-step forward, and the press of his forehead against Sanji’s returns as quickly as it had disappeared. “Promise?” he asks, his voice low and even.

“Yeah,” Sanji says quietly and nods, the slight movement disjointing their connection in a clumsy way that makes his heart twist. It causes Zoro’s nose to graze his, and his leg twitches up from an involuntary, aggressive tick—he takes in a sharp breath, and grabs at the fabric stretched over Zoro’s chest without thinking. It takes him a second to realize that, in the movement, his line of sight had shifted from the man’s eyes to his lips, and he looks back quickly, only to find Zoro glancing heatedly to his as well.

He can feel the air conditioning blowing down on him, but he could swear the room is smoldering hot. They’re not at the afterparty for the shooting in Alabasta this time, but Sanji almost feels like he’s there again, with the sand in his shoes and nothing but Zoro on his mind—like the entire world has melted away for a moment, and the only thing he wants to do is close the narrowing distance between them for good. And, for the first time in what feels like forever, he chooses not to deny himself.

He tugs Zoro forward, throwing caution to the wind as he kisses him with all the fervent passion he’s been keeping to himself for far too long. Strong hands squeeze his shoulders by reflex, but quickly move to embrace him, eagerly pulling him close in a way that offsets Sanji’s balance. Zoro’s lips respond with an equal impatience, forceful and excited as he showers him in brief, hungry kisses. Each one is more intense than the last; he can feel the man’s arms snake down around his waist to bring them even closer together—if that were even possible. But the sudden momentum pulling his hips forward and forcing his head back sends his body backward, and his feet out from under him.

Dragging Zoro back with him, Sanji’s shoulders collide with the inside of his wardrobe, and the wooden sides scrape his elbows as his falls down inside it. Some of the clothing on the hangers fall off onto him, fabric landing his head and messing with his hair, with crumpled sleeves cascading over his shoulders. But he can’t bring himself to care about the trivial details when Zoro kisses him harder, a hand gripping the back of his head as they slide to the floor. His lips never leave Sanji’s, muffling every noise they make as they grab at each other for support. Sanji wraps his legs around the man’s hips to keep his back from bending strangely, and Zoro groans into his mouth before biting at his bottom lip. A churning knot in his stomach begs Sanji to open up to let the man in, and so he does, catching a deep, cool breath of air before Zoro’s tongue ghosts over where he’d bitten and accepts the offer.

The wooden structure creaks around them as Sanji shifts to free his arms, and he wastes no time burying his fingers in Zoro’s short, fake blood-matted hair as he deepens the kiss. As much as Sanji loves the feeling of Zoro’s tongue practically committing his mouth to memory, the desire to do the same is too much to ignore; so he pushes back, meeting Zoro in the middle before taking the plunge himself. The taste of Zoro is even more enticing than he remembers, and he finds himself chasing it as the man shifts back. Sanji’s entire body goes with him, lifting from the base of the wardrobe and the dressing room floor and clinging to the man’s body like he needs it to breathe—which, who is he kidding, is not far from the truth. Zoro hardly budges under the sudden extra weight, only letting out an appreciative groan and sliding a knee under Sanji’s ass to help keep him up.

His lips burn from the pressure and friction when he finally pulls away, his breath uneven and face in flames. The almost imperceptible line of saliva connecting their lips disappears as he leans back against the back wall, with a pile of clothes still on top of him, partially obscuring his face. He can taste Zoro all over the inside of his mouth—a fact that, now that the heat haze clouding his mind is gradually clearing, both pleases and horrifies him. He looks up at the man on top of him like a deer in headlights, waiting for some sort of sign as to what Zoro is thinking now—for any sort of sign telling him how badly he may or may not have royally fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in this last bit, I think I got my smut groove back… Ohhhhh dear.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued.


End file.
